Chutes and Ladders Cloak and Daggers
by physixXx
Summary: Percy Weasley is playing a dangerous game, feeding information to all three sides of the Dark War. Will he come out unscathed and victorious... or just dead? Severus x Percy
1. Chapter 1

**ACT I**

1.

I've never been good at flying, even as a child. It's not that I was afraid of heights or afraid of falling; I've seen Mum mend plenty of Bill and Charlie's bones to know that a broken leg is a mere wand's wave away from being right as rain – and you'd get pudding to boot.

No, what I didn't like about flying was that it was too chaotic. There are too many variables to take into consideration. I can be as fluid and careful as possible and still fall victim to someone else's recklessness. There's little control in flying. Even Charlie, who I long considered one of the best fliers I've had the pleasure of knowing, has had more spills than Nymphadora at a Muggle coffee-shop.

I was nine years old when I made the decision that I would never fly again. Charlie had tried to provide me with a head start before attending Hogwarts.

"You'll fly circles around the lot of 'em," he said with a smile. Of course I believed him, how could I not? Charlie would never lie to me. (Let it be said, let it be known, that I consider Charlie as the only person in my family to have never lied to me.)

He showed me the correct grip, the right mounting technique, and the best positioning once on the broom. He told me exactly how to handle the broom for optimal speed and control. At first, it went without a hitch. I managed to stay aloft, probably three feet in the air, hovering steadily for several minutes.

"Good job," Charlie said. "Now, go a little higher... that's it."

I admit, even in my jaded memory, I do recall the glorious feeling of wind through my hair and the freedom of dangling legs no longer earthbound. That bliss, however, was short-lived. The broom lurched and convulsed, as if it had a mind of its own and could no longer brook my presence. It made sharp turns, going left when I leaned to try and make it go right; shooting up when I wanted to go down. Of course, I was frantic. I could hear Charlie screaming directions below, but I could scarcely concentrate let alone discern his instructions. It got so bad, and I so scared, that I even tried reasoning with the broom.

"Please, let me down. Please, let me down."

In hindsight, those were probably the wrong words to say and certainly the wrong time to say it. The broom chose that exact moment to finally do as I asked, flipping itself on its axis and tossing me aside like a child's used rag-doll. Of all the places to land, I pick the hardest, barest spot in our yard, hardly a garden gnome to cushion my fall.

I landed hard on my side, all but shattering the bones in my arm. I didn't cry, though. Maybe it was the shock of it all or the relief of the whole ordeal being over. Whatever it was, I remember watching Charlie run towards me and _he_ was crying enough for both of us.

"Percy! My god, are... are you okay? Don't move... something may be broken."

"I... I fell down..."

"Yeah, I see that..."

"I think I broke my arm."

"Can you move your fingers?"

"... no ..."

"That's alright. Mum will fix it in no time."

"Mummy's going to be mad..."

"Yeah, but not at you."

That seminal event scarred me for life, I think. Even in my first year at Hogwarts, when we were required to take flying lessons, I nearly failed the class. Without the extra work I did for Madam Hooch – namely volunteering to polish the school brooms once a month – I doubt I'd have passed, even marginally. Needless to say, Fred and George found this out some years later and I've scant heard the end of it.

I've always wondered if that was the moment that I realised I was hardly the Weasley the others were. Bill, Charlie, Fred & George, Ron, even Ginny – they were all excellent flyers. Father even has stories of Mum at Hogwarts doing some rather daring things on a broom. But me? I can barely see a broom without feeling sharp pains in my right arm. I could say that flying is the reason I've made some of the choices I have, why I found myself so quick to turn my back my family, but that'd be lying. I would certainly love to be able to pinpoint my family's eagerness to cast me aside to my lacklustre airborne skills. Alas, that would be too easy. However, you must admit it's an awfully large coincidence.

2.

**Newspaper Clipping:**  
The Daily Prophet  
... those who have sworn allegiance to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, also known as the Death Eaters, have increased their terrorist activities in light of the recent murder of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore; former Headmaster of Hogwarts; Grand Sorcerer and Order of Merlin, First Class; former Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards; and former Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Sources from the Ministry's _International Office of International Magical Cooperation_ have reported that planned visits from high-ranking wizarding officials from Germany, Italy, and Russia have been cancelled due to the highly volatile state of British affairs. The recent attack on the newly renovated _Exmoor National Park Quidditch Stadium_ during the **Chudley Cannon - Tchamba Charmers** match proved too much for the Ministry's _Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes'_ highly-trained _Invisibility Taskforce_ and _Obliviators Headquarters_ to contain. Our sources tell us that Minister Scrimgeour has an emergency meeting with Muggle Britain Prime Minister, John Major.

3.

**Personal letter from Penelope Clearwater:**  
_Dearest Percival,_

Included in the envelope is my key to the flat. I believe I have everything. If you find that I've forgotten something, you may send it Muggle post if you wish, or you can burn it, whichever is more to your liking.

I would be lying if I said that I regret leaving, but honestly, I believe this is for the best - for the both of us. I never aspired to be a trophy wife, Percy, but I did want to be your wife. I do hope you attain the happiness that you're so longing for. I daresay you will find that it doesn't rest in the high offices of the Ministry or in the myriad of conference Floo calls at four AM in the morning.

I urge you to leave the Ministry, it's a failing mechanism, a shallow remnant of power long-since lost. If you know what's good for you, Percy, you'll leave this bloody war and Britain behind. I so hope you do.

Goodbye.

PC 

4.

It's two-thirty AM when I read Penelope's letter (and here I thought I was coming home early, for once). It's waiting for me when I walk in our – my – London flat, pinned to the mantelpiece above the fireplace. I read and re-read her goodbye epistle and, even though I could have seen this coming a mile away, it's still quite the shock.

Shortly after we graduated, I asked Penelope to marry me. Her 'yes' made me the happiest man alive. Sod my family and rot Ron and the twins, because I knew she and I would be forever. We were perfect for each other. She was intelligent, quick-witted, beautiful, and ambitious – everything a man could ever want for a wife. Despite all of her good points, she lacked patience. She knew that I was on the fast-track to high Ministry standing and she claimed to understand what that meant, the sacrifices we would have to make. Yet, as time progressed, she became more and more distant. Sex became a chore to her; kissing, a bother. Dumbledore's death at the hands of Severus, her favourite professor, hit her hard.

"We were under his care," I remember her saying with an incredulous look on her face. "All this time and he was a Death Eater working for You-Know-Who!"

I wanted to tell her what I knew – that I had been in contact with Severus since the murder, but by then it had gotten to the point to where she and I could barely talk about ordinary things, let alone the impending war and our place in it. Soon, her paranoia took over, she stopped going out, stopped opening our post, and would hardly even answer Floo calls, even when she knew it was me.

Truth be told, I'm surprised it took her this long to leave me. I can't say as I blame her, either. I'd have left, too. I want to leave. I allow myself only a few minutes to wallow in my self-pity before changing clothes and leaving my flat for my Meeting.

5.

I'm running late when I finally apparate in an alley just behind the Piccadilly Theatre. The lights from the illuminated advertising signs drown everything of colour, masking detail with its constant flicking and changing. I pull a vial from my pocket, nearly gagging from the smell of its contents when I uncork it. Its putrid green tint is apt; the potion is probably the most disgusting thing I've ever tasted.

Polyjuice.

As soon as the first drop touches my tongue I can feel my mind seem to slip away, momentarily. My body lurches and twists; I feel soft hair sliding down my back. Ribs shift; breasts form; penis inverts to form what is probably a fully-functioning vagina. I've always wondered if I could have a baby as a polyjuiced woman but taking the potion for 9-months straight would probably be disastrous. My ears pop as my jaw realigns itself and I can feel pressure all over my body as I compress into a smaller frame. It's discomforting, of course, but in seconds, there's a beautiful blonde young lady where Percival Ignatius Weasley once stood.

I take a moment to get used to the new body, walking and standing, turning my head, flipping my hair back in that whimsical, coy way I'd see Penelope do at Ministry functions. That was before she refused to go out anymore. Once I feel I've gotten used to the mechanics of this new form, I begin to unbutton my shirt and trousers, now hanging so loose I'm surprised they stayed on at all. I pull a change of clothes from my rucksack and change into an outfit destined to get me propositioned. I look more like a two-knut whore than a super-secret Ministry agent (not that I'm a sanctioned agent, mind you. This little 'meeting' is strictly off the record).

As I'm buttoning my shirt – er, blouse – I notice 'my' breasts. They're... nice. 'Huge' is a better word, actually. The brown nipples, hardened from the nip air, are centred in slightly darker areolas; I can't help to pinch them, nor can I help the quick gasp that escapes my mouth as I respond favourably to the tweaking. I slide one hand down my along my tight stomach as my other hand lifts a breast, feeling its heft and marvelling at how fluid it is. The travelling hand slips under the skirt's waistband and past the panty line, or at least where the panty line would be had I remembered to bring some. Instead, it finds the soft, tight curls of pubic bush. Memory kicks in – memory of Penelope's pussy and how it was shaped, how it smelt, how it... tasted.

Before long, my middle finger has made its way past the genital cleft along 'my' entrance, rubbing at the folds of 'my' pussy. My breath hitches as the tip of the finger slips past them and into me, sending shivers up and down my spine. Why do women even need men, I wonder, if just doing _this_ feels so good? I blush at the thought of me repeating this act under more pleasant and solitary conditions.

Note to self: Toss off as a woman at least once before I die.

After hiding my rucksack and casting a Confundus Charm about it, I make my way to the south-western side of the Circus towards the Shaftesbury Monument. That's where my contact and I were to meet. I'm leery because of how open and public it is, but it makes logical sense, really. The Death Eaters work in shadows, rarely coming out in the light. They hide in alleys and go in and out of buildings through backdoors. If they were looking to catch a spy among them, they'd hardly look to Piccadilly Circus, with its loud, boisterous people and even more observant Muggle police. Not only this, but there's been a rash of wizarding prostitution going on here, so there's low-level Aurors casing the area as well. The more I think about it, the safer I feel about meeting The Spy here in the open.

But the Death Eaters aren't the only people I need to be wary of. This isn't Ministry business. In fact, I could be put on trial for high treason should I be caught doing what I have been for the past six months. Nevertheless, something must be done. The Ministry has been inept for far too long, and I've spent my last days being blind to it.

I jaunt across the street when I see a break in the traffic flow. Forgetting that I'm wearing high-heels and not loafers, I nearly break my ankles in two; but I manage to limp to a bench where I proceed to sit and remove the cursed bone-breakers. I grimace as I massage my foot.

"Not walking long," comes a voice from in front of me.

Without thinking, I reply, "Not like this, no."

Damn. How stupid of me to answer like that. I look up to see a well-dressed Mediterranean bloke staring down at me. He's ... handsome, if not a little rough. His hair, blonde and greasy, hangs down over his face. It's that sort of style that you see more of lately. That 'I-spent-seventy-five-quid-to-look-like-I-just-woke-up' sort of look. His eyes are deep blue, which seem to glow against his dark skin. His nose... there's something familiar about his nose.

"You should be careful, young... lady. You might meet the fancy of some unscrupulous gentleman."

His voice is a slow drawl, coloured with an air of self-importance that could only be—

"Severus?"

Immediately, he tenses. "Shh, fool! Not quite so loud."

Groups of pub patrons and partygoers pass us by, some too close for my comfort, but I realise that's my paranoia again and quickly push the feeling down. Time for business, I think.

The Mediterranean gent turns on his heel and begins to walk away, tapping the ground with his cane as he does so. I slide my shoe on and follow.

"Take my arm," he says once I've caught up.

Arm-in-arm, we walk towards Old Compton Street and make our way to Soho.

"Next time, try not to dress like a harlot. I've no mind to engage in decadent activities just to maintain the illusion."

I ignore his reprimand. I'm no longer his student and he'd do well to remember that.

"I must say," I tease, "I rather like the new look. You should keep it."

"And you should remember the importance of not alerting to the entire populace around us that I am Severus Snape," he replies through gritted teeth, hissing each syllable as only the Potions Master could.

I rest my head on his shoulder and grin. "Oh, Sevvy... don't be such a spoilsport."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot I had scheduled a meeting with one of the twins. Have any Skyving Snackboxes to sell?"

Oh, he's good.

"Touché. Enough of the banter, what news do you have?"

We turn a corner and the walkway seems to get more crowded, its occupants more flamboyantly dressed. We can hear the muffled, not-so-distant 'thump' of dance music coming from various buildings around us. After a short while, I realise that I'm not in the sort of place where I will have to worry about being propositioned, at least, not in this form. I'm surprised at how bitter that makes me.

"_His_ power has neither grown nor waned, but neither has his support. However, he is networking with far greater efficiency than before. He speaks constantly with his supporters in Africa and the mainland. There is even talk of attacks on less-guarded dragon reserves in Australia and South America."

"Going to use dragons now since the Giants decided not to wage war?"

"Indeed."

I take a moment to process all of this and decide what information I should give to him. There are certain things only my department knows. Should I tell Snape the wrong thing it could actually lead directly to me. But, per our agreement, I _have_ to give him _something_ to take back to You-Know-Who. The only question is what?

"Is there more?" I ask, hoping to get more out of him.

"Quite. But first, our exchange."

I sigh.

"Scrimgeour has a meeting tomorrow – today – with the Muggle Prime Minister. Mr. Major is none-too-happy with how we're dealing with our'little problem', as he likes to call it. DE attacks have been too...chaotic of late. Muggles are getting hurt. Information is leaking."

It was Severus' turn to mull over the new information. He doesn't speak again until we've entered a rather crowded pub, taken our seats in the far corner, and ordered cocktails.

"Contrary to public opinion, He does read the paper. He knew of the meeting..."

"Yes," I interrupt, "but not of the nature of the meeting, I'd wager."

Severus' brow perks up. "Go on."

"Military intervention."

Severus almost recoils in his seat.

"Well... more than likely," I add, rather sheepishly (especially considering my 'big reveal').

"You think, or you know?"

"I'm... pretty sure. But I doubt that'd be any concern for You-Know-Who."

Severus interrupts, 'his' dark brown eyes alit with fire. "Oh, really? Tell me, _Weasley_... Have you a spell that can stop a bullet or protect you from an atomic blast, maybe? Because I certainly do not recall that on Hogwarts curriculum. But maybe I slept on that day, yes?"

Merlin, this man is infuriating!

"You don't think he'd..."

"The Prime Minister is a prudent man and he loves Britain," Snape answers. "He loves _Muggle_ Britain, I should say. I gather he's prepared to do whatever it takes to preserve it, and I doubt that would exclude military action."

Severus is looking past me and it's obvious the implications of what I'm telling him are hitting him hard. "I don't need to remind you," he continued, "that subtlety and precision aren't exactly synonyms I'd use to describe Muggle, military proficiency. If we can go by history, I scarcely doubt they'll be much left to Britain – Muggle or otherwise – should there be an all-out war between the British Army and Lord ... well, you know..."

What happens next takes me by surprise. Severus actually begins to bite his nails and not the sort of way one might do to rid themselves of dirt from underneath, rather, tearing at them as if it were a meal – his last meal.

"It gets worse – or better depending on who you ask," I say as the waitress returns with our drinks, delivering a smile and a nod as she sets them down in front of us. I wait until she turns and leaves before I continue.

"Apparently America and Germany are getting... edgy over this, too. They've already sent representatives, as have Italy, Russia, and Japan; and none of them are happy. Even now, Germany is cleaning house, rounding up DE sympathizers and supporters as if they were scared the Fourth Reich was coming."

"They have history, after all," Severus finally mumbles, pulling his fingers away from his mouth. "They'd hardly want to rest on their laurels and seem as though they aren't doing anything about what could possibly be viewed as Hitler Redux, could they?"

He has a point; I'd nearly forgotten Germany's history.

Severus takes a sip from his lager and screws up his face. "Ack! How can anyone drink this rubbish?"

"It's an acquired taste," I reply, bringing my fruity drink to my lips. "Thank you for telling me about the dragons."

"I assumed you'd like to know. I hear that you are still close to Charlie, if not any other Weasley."

"I am."

"And what of ... the Order, then? Any word?"

"None. My contact hasn't been able to make it to our last two meetings. Last I heard – and this is purely hear-say – there's a slight power struggle between Harry and Shacklebolt."

Severus perked up at this. "Really?"

"Yes. Harry won't tell Shacklebolt everything that he does for fear that Shacklebolt isn't being completely honest about his allegiance. He is, after all, practically second head of the Ministry. Plus, the last bit of info you gave me wasn't exactly the best was it? I relayed it to my contact, who gave the info to Harry, who in turn gave it to Shacklebolt."

Severus had told me once that there was a shipment of gold coming in via boat. It was important to You-Know-Who, who wanted to use the gold for some potion that he was brewing, something that would tip the scales in his balance. Even though the cargo was important, You-Know-Who didn't want to bring undo attention to the operation. As such, he was only sending three Death Eaters (though three powerful Death Eaters) to intercept and steal the shipment. At least, that's what Severus told me.

The team of Aurors that were sent (junior-level, I might add), not only found themselves outnumbered four-to-one, but also had a pack of werewolves to contend with. None of them survived.

"I told you before," Severus reminds me, snapping me out of my memory, "that there needs to be losses on both sides. The Dark Lord was beginning to suspect he had a traitor in his inner circle. I had to give you some bad information to make sure that The Death Eaters succeeded in their goal. Only Bellatrix, Peter and I knew of the shipment. If the Aurors had met them full-force, I'd certainly have been found out as spy."

I wave off his excuse. "It doesn't matter. After that incident, Shacklebolt demanded to know Harry's contact with the Death Eaters. Harry refused. That was the start of it. Now, Shacklebolt isn't as forthcoming with Ministry support for the Order. It's not like he could show much support to begin with. The Order is a touchy subject with Scrimgeour."

"Tell me," Severus begins, abruptly. "Do you know where Draco Malfoy is?"

I'm a little taken aback by the question. "I always thought he was still with you lot."

"No. Not for awhile, now. He fled from His Keep several months ago. Haven't seen nor heard from him since. The Dark Lord is frantically trying to find him."

Now, my curiosity is piqued. "Why?"

"He... knows things. Things even I am not privy to."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Oh, You-Know-Who has many weaknesses, among them a rather loose lip in the boudoir."

I shudder – physically shudder – at the notion of anyone having that kind of relationship with that monster.

"Oh, don't get squeamish," Severus chastises with a curl in his lip. "Tom Riddle was a beautiful man and You-Know-Who is smart enough to remember how easy it was to manipulate people when he was considered beautiful. He took great pains to be so again. I doubt even someone such as you," at this he looks me over, "could resist his charms."

"Be that as it may, I still have no inclination to picture him and..." another shudder, "Malfoy touching each other's bits and pieces."

Then, another thing happens that shocks me: Severus laughs. Not some cheap chuckle or the deprecating kind of laugh where you think he's actually making fun of you, but a deep, booming bark of a laugh that momentarily calls attention to us.

"Indeed," he says, wiping a tear from his eye and taking a deep breath to regain his composure.

"You... should..." I swallow hard. "You should laugh more often."

As soon as I say it, I'm embarrassed. I look down to try and hide the blush in my cheeks, but I can still see in my peripheral vision that he's looking at me, staring at me. To break the tension, I take a sip from my drink. 

"You've given me quite a lot to take back to the Dark Lord," he says, softly. So soft, in fact, that it pulls my eyes to his. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," I say, licking my lips (which have become quite dry), "unless we win."

I go home from my meeting and toss off to thoughts of a Mediterranean blonde, of Severus Snape in his robes at Hogwarts, of a beautiful and powerful Tom Riddle, of Draco Malfoy, and of the woman I was for little more than two hours. I do not, however, think of Penelope.


	2. Chapter 2

**ACT II**

6.

Defence Council of the Ministry of Defence.  
**From:** Prime Minister's Office  
**To:** Michael Portillo, Secretary of State for Defence  
**Re:** The "Little Problem"

Michael,  
We've had reports of more attacks on civilians. Her Majesty, the Queen demands a definitive plan on dealing with them. As the Americans are fond of saying: 'the best defence is a good offence'. I leave this in your capable hands. 

_J.Major_

**From:** Secretary of State for Defence  
**To:** Prime Minister John Major  
**Re:** The "Little Problem"

We have received word from the Americans regarding certain technologies sure to deal with them. Things are set in motion as we speak. Our informant has given us critical information regarding their 'hot spots'. My office will have a concise plan of attack for Her Majesty to sign. 

_M.Portillo_

7.

**News Clipping**  
_"Rita Skeeter's Scoop"_  
The Daily Prophet  
... found out that there have been less-than-amicable talks between Minister for Magic and the Prime Minister of Muggle Britain. As far as we can tell, it seems the Muggles no longer find Minister Scrimgeour to be an effective force in quelling the growing brashness of the Death Eaters and other supporters for He-Know-Must-Not-Be-Named. If the Muggles don't believe Minister Scrimgeour capable of stopping the attacks and providing proper safety, why should we?

8.

The sun has barely begun to slice through the night sky when I roll into my office in the _Department of International Magical Cooperation_. Before I can even step into the clunky, too-slow-to-be-magical lift to the floor of my offices (and by 'office' I really mean 'cubicle'), I'm already regretting not calling in ill. Between my rendezvous with Severus and the subsequent tossing off, I barely got a wink in edgewise before my wand's alarm went off.

(Whoever thought it would be funny to not include a 'snooze' feature in wands should get a one-way ticket to Azkaban!)

On my floor, I round a corner, only marginally aware of the bustling interns and new-hires. In fact, I am barely able to dodge an over-zealous apprentice threatened to be buried alive by the stack of papers in her arms.

"Sorry, Mr. Weasley!" she manages to call out as I step out of her trajectory.

Today, I think, is going to be one of those days.

Nevertheless, no matter how difficult the morning has been thus far, I've a strange feeling it's about to get far worse! My 'office' is just past Minister Scrimgeour's. In fact, I have to pass his door to get to mine, which is unfortunate. Lately, I've been dilatory more times than not – a fact that hasn't escaped the Minister's attention. The door, which is normally closed and silenced, is slightly ajar, allowing any audacious person to snoop about with nigh-free reign. I make to shut the door, but something strange stops me dead in my tracks: raised voices coming from within. Mind, there's nothing inherently unusual about hearing raised voices from Scrimgeour's office; it's been happening far more frequently with You-Know-Who's return to power. What is strange, however, is that the raised voice is not Scrimgeour's; rather, it belongs to a fervent, new recruit by the name of _Corin Praeposit_, who has had his eye on my job since he got here.

I give you three guesses as to the topic of Mr. Praeposit's tirade...

"I'm telling you, he cannot be trusted," Praeposit says, matter-of-factly, accompanied by the 'thud' of a fist hitting the Minister's desktop.

"And I'm telling you," Scrimgeour says, just as straightforwardly, "Mr. Weasley has my complete trust."

"Sir, he's been coming in to work later and later. He was reported being seen in Horizont Alley..."

Shit. Originally, my Order contact wanted to meet in the "artsy" (read: gay) part of wizarding London – _Horizont Alley_. It was another instance of believing that no one would think to check there for spies and conspirators. During that time, I wasn't always as careful as I should have been. Charlie, my contact, gave me a crash-course in proper espionage. This time, his tutelage didn't cause me to break bones and bruise skin. Indeed, it probably saved my life more than once. I guess I pushed my luck with the Horizont Alley meetings; a reminder that I need to remain alert and diligent.

"Percy's extra curricular activities are of little concern to me."

Scrimgeor's defence of my alleged homosexuality is... heartening, if not entirely annoying. He doesn't need to defend me, after all – I'm hardly gay (wanks to thoughts of olive-skinned Mediterranean men with a penchant for dour expressions notwithstanding).

"It's of concern to you if he's passing Ministry information to the Death Eaters."

What!

Scrimgeour makes a sound much like a whale spouting air from its blowhole. "That's a grand accusation, Praeposit. Do you have any proof to back it up?"

I hold my breath during what is probably the longest moment of silence ever endured as I wait for Praeposit's 'proof'. There's enough evidence against me to fill a memoir from Gilderoy Lockhart. One would only have to look to find it, and not very far I might add. Fortunately, Praeposit's 'evidence' never comes and I take a deep breath in an effort to quell the shaky nerves their exchange has given me.

"I don't have any," Praeposit admits in a small voice. "But if you give me permission to follow—"

In an insufferably dismissive tone, Scrimgeour scoffs. "Permission denied, Praeposit. Weasley's no more a spy than his father is – or I am."

"Anyone who's willing to turn their back on their own family," Praeposit retorts, so low I can barely hear him, "cannot be trusted."

Low-blow, that.

"That's enough, Praeposit. This conversation is done. I will hear no more of it, in fact. You are _not_ to follow Percival Weasley, nor have any of his communiqués pre-screened, nor his Floo calls recorded, or..."

"Fine, fine! I understand, sir," Praeposit says, defiant even in his defeat. "Let's hope you're not making a mistake."

9.

I make it to my cubicle unnoticed by either Praeposit or the Minister. Already the weight of the day is bearing down on me, fit to break me in two. I rest my head in my hands, propping my elbows on my desk and ignoring (for now) the stack of paperwork waiting for me. I try to calm my nerves by taking deep breaths, but I can't stop trembling.

Suddenly, understanding dawns on me. I now realise just how dangerous a game I'm playing. I'm in the middle of a trifurcate power struggle between the Order of the Phoenix, the Ministry, and the Death Eaters, trading information from one source for information from another. In doing so, I'm breaking so many laws that I daresay life in Azkaban would be the least of my worries. Ministry officials 'in the know' are strictly forbidden to speak to Order members in this time of war. Any such communication is considered an act of treason, usually given the ultimate punishment. Worse the point, I'm not as... bent and duplicitous as The Twins, who could probably pull something like this off in their sleep. If keep this up much longer, I'm sure to get caught.

"Weasley!"

Scrimgeour's commanding voice brings me out of my thoughts. I pull my face out of my hands and peer up at him.

"Long night, last?" he asks, an eyebrow raised. His lion-like mane of hair adds shadows to his face making his features seem both edgier and abstruse at the same time.

"Ah, yeah... I guess you can say that," I stammer.

"Well, get some coffee in you or something, lad. I need you to take notes. The meeting with the Muggle Prime Minister is in five..."

Scrimgeour doesn't wait to gauge my response. I huff and puff, but I still pull out my _dicta-quill_ and parchment and follow the Minister towards the conference rooms. As I leave my cubicle, my eyes meet with Praeposit's, who glares at me with hard, righteous indignation. No matter what he had been told – ordered – I know he is going to be a tack in my toe, an agnail that won't pull away.

10.

I'm hot on Scrimgeour's heels when he walks into one of the more spacious conference chambers. So close am I, in fact, that when the Minister stops abruptly, I almost careen into him. Indeed, I end up dropping my parchment and quill, hastily bending over to retrieve them. When my attention returns to the room, I understand what brought Scrimgeour to a screeching halt.

Sitting at the head of the table, as if he belonged there, wasn't the Muggle Prime Minster. In his stead was a slender, blonde gentleman sharply dressed with his hair slicked back, revealing a strong forehead, and stronger jaw line. He closes the folder he was reading as we walked in, stands, and offers the Minister his hand.

"Rufus Scrimgeour, I presume?"

It takes a moment for the Minister to take the proffered hand, no doubt offended at the lack of the Prime Minister's attendance.

"_Minister_ Scrimgeour," he corrects.

A corner of the blonde's lip twitches, as if he just remembered an inside joke. "Yes, yes. Minister Scrimgeour, I understand."

With that he sits, folding his hands over the portfolio, never taking his eyes off the Minister.

We sit along the table opposite the blonde.

"Oh, how rude of me," he says. "I'm Marc Antone, the Prime Minister's Diary Secretary. He apologizes for not being able to make it to this little meeting."

_'Diary Secretary'?_ That's little more than an appointment setter for the Prime Minister. Gods! Even _I_ have more authority than this bloke. I can almost hear Scrimgeour's teeth grinding as he takes this slight -- for that's what it is -- personally.

"No fear," Antone continues. "I have the complete confidence of the Prime Minister..."

There's something about the way he says "Prime Minister", placing an accentuating glance with the word 'prime', that bothers me. If Scrimgeour notices it, he makes no indication, nor does he even give a shufti my way.

"Well, as you know, Prime Minister Major—"

There it is again!

"—is concerned with the poor handling of your people's little problem..."

And now, there's the two-for: 'your people', 'little problem'.

I start to squirm in my seat as the dicta-quill catches Antone's every word and inflexion. I scarcely like where this meeting is going.

"We are handling things quite well," Scrimgeour counters.

As if he were waiting for that very objection, Antone pulls out newspaper clippings from the folder he had been carrying.

"Three attacks on... ah... _Muggles_, is that what you call us?" He almost laughs as he slides the articles to Scrimgeour. "An unfortunate incident involving The Glasgow Underground, where almost a hundred... Muggles were hurt, and dozens killed."

I can see, although almost obscured by Scrimgeour, that Marc has handed him not only Muggle newspaper clippings, but that of _The Quibbler_ and _The Daily Prophet_, as well. It's a fact that smacks me dumb. 

"How did you get this?" Scrimgeour asks, holding up a copy of _The Prophet_.

"Oh, no need to worry about that," Antone dismisses with a wave of the hand. "All that matters is that we have them, and access to more. We've been reading these... newspapers" he says the word with no fair hint of disdain, "since the beginning of the year."

With renewed vigour, he opens the folder again, pulling another article from the small stack of official-looking papers.

"This one is particularly insightful." He clears his throat, pulling a pair of spectacles from his jacket pocket, and sliding them on with an air of smugness that would make Lucius Malfoy green with envy.

"And I quote: _'The number of people within our wizarding community that feels that the Ministry of Magic is doing a stand-up job in containing the threat of the Death Eaters is quickly dwindling. Despite having enjoyed a short, albeit poignant, spike in confidence with the sacking of Cornelius Fudge and the appointment of Rufus Scrimgeour'_..."

At this, Antone tears his attention from the article and stares pointedly at the Minister.

"... _'that respite for the Ministry has since waned, yet again. Less than 17 of wizarding London feel that the Ministry is doing everything they can to squelch the terrorist activities of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his Death Eaters, and only 11 feel safe from potential Death Eater attacks.' _"

He lets those statistics hang in the air like an albatross about the neck; the weight of the day growing ever-more unbearable with every second that passes.

"We are doing everything we can," Scrimgeour offers.

Antone lets out a deep sigh as he scoops the articles back into the folder. "Well, I guess their side is simply the stronger side. But, that's not why I'm here. This meeting isn't to placate or console us; rather, to let you know that we are making our own... precautions."

Everything about Antone is a signal. From the words he uses, the tone in his voice, to the way his eyes narrow and his lips purse, everything sends a message as to the true meaning behind each sentence. It's both unnerving and fascinating to watch.

Scrimgeour perks up in his seat. "What do you mean by 'precautions'?" he asks.

Antone leans over the desk, his voice dangerously low. "Make no mistake about it, Minister Scrimgeour; we are not without our own resources. If need be, Her Majesty the Queen's Royal Armed Forces will finish what you are unable to."

"What!" I cry out before I can stop myself.

Scrimgeour merely raises a hand in my direction before turning his attention back to Antone, who hadn't gave me any notice.

"You lot haven't been entirely truthful, have you?" Antone asks with a devilish leer.

If I didn't know better, I'd think he didn't know there was a line between menacing and flirtatious. As it stands, he seems intent on straddling that fence and with none other than Minister Scrimgeour, no less.

"What are you on about?" Scrimgeour scoffs.

"In all these years, you've never once told us how the two administrations were integrated in other countries. Until our informant told us how magical and non-magical governments of the US, Germany, Japan, Australia, Canada worked together, we didn't even know such a thing was possible. Well... now we know."

"That's just how it's been for centuries! It's our law. We are not the Americas. Or Canada. Or Germany... we are Great Britain..."

"Yes, exactly," Antone interjects, pointing his finger at no one in particular. "_We_ are Great Britain... the United Kingdom." 

Yet again, the way he says 'we' sends shivers down my spine.

Antone opens his folder – which I'm quickly beginning to despise – and pulls out a stack of papers, bleached white and void of creases, the exact antithesis to our parchment. It's lifeless and sterile and I'm sure it's little more than a harbringer of bad news; I almost want to check it for dark magic. 

Standing, he slides the documents to Scrimgeour. I can read the title on the cover page:

_:MAGIC: The Magical and Arcane Governing Injunction and Control Act of 1997 :_

"What's this rubbish, then?"

Antone smoothes his hand over his jacket, brushing off imaginary dirt from his clothes, as he continues, "Best get acquainted with that 'rubbish', _Minister_. You're now holding in your hands the prime law of the land with regard to anything and everything magical in nature."

Again, without thinking (and before I can stop myself), I stand. "You can't _do_ that!"

Finally, Antone turns his gaze to me, his eyes locked to mine. "Oh, but we can. The bill is already at its third reading. The Parliament has good as approved it and Her Majesty the Queen, Herself is scheduled to sign that into law by day's end."

"This is preposterous!" Scrimgeour says.

"No. 'Preposterous' is being held captive by lunatics with wands and flying brooms who make laws about Muggles without getting our say; who constantly have their memories manipulated and erased when one of you lot gets a little power hungry; living in fear because the people entrusted to protect us can't even protect their own. _That_ is 'preposterous' – _this_ is prudent. We are far from powerless, Rufus Scrimgeour." Antone almost spat the name. "You'd do well to remember that."

At this, Scrimgeour stands, face beat red with fury, slamming his fist down on the table. "We are not the enemy, here!"

"If there is another attack on Muggles," Antone responds, ignoring Scrimgeour's declaration, "we will be forced to take military action."

"That'll be war!" I yell, hoping beyond hope that this is just the posturing of two schoolyard bullies puffing out their chest in an effort to be the 'King of the Hill'. Surely these two sides have sense enough to understand the implications of what Antone has just threatened! 

Instead, Antone looks at me with those cold, grey eyes – devoid of doubt and filled to the brim with arrogance that he no doubt believes is confidences.

"Then war it will be."

11.

When I finally make it home, some eight hours after the meeting with the Muggle Prime Minister's assistant, I'm knackered. So exhausted, in fact, that I forget that I'm coming home to an empty house, save the furniture and broken memories. It's funny how a room that, at one point, seemed so small – too small – can all of a sudden feel vast and cavernous and empty. I lean flush against the door as it closes behind me and take a deep breath. I can still smell faint traces of Penelope's perfume, her shampoo, and soap: lilacs and honey, with a peppered piquant flavour to it.

With little preamble, I make my way into our – my – bedroom and wrench open the door to our – my – closet. My clothes are bunched to one side, but the other side is emptied, almost completely, save for a couple blouses of hers and a deep ocean blue formal gown that she wore to our third-year masquerade ball at Hogwarts. Gently, as if I were holding Penelope herself, I take the shift from its hanger and bring it up to my nose. That peppery smell is there, imbued in every fibre, calling forth memories more vivid than a Penseive. I close my eyes, smile, and become lost in an imaginary waltz. I wrap my arms around the dress as I would were Penelope in it, and begin to pirouette about the bedroom, remembering the first time we danced together and how painfully embarrassing it was: stepping on her toes, gripping her hand too tight, almost getting a 'biggie' as she pressed herself so tight against me I thought – I hoped – we'd become the same person.

Within moments, I've tossed myself onto the bed, the dress still draped on me. My hand begins to roam over my torso, unbuttoning the shirt as I continue to take in Penelope's faded scent. Oh, if only she were here right now. My shirt lay open, splayed across the bed, my hand continuing to rove along my chest, twisting and rubbing nipples that seem to perk up the closer the adventurous fingers get. Another whiff of her dress and a tightness travels like an earthquake down to my trousers, where my cock is begging to be released. The travelling hand proceeds without my conscious prodding as it unfastens the belt and pulling down my slacks just far enough to where I can start kicking them off.

My face is buried underneath Penelope's dress, making me feel as though I'm drowning in her, but my other hand has begun pulling down my Y-fronts, freeing my prick from its confinement.

The transition in my thoughts is so subtle that I can't tell when I switched. No longer am I Percy, fantasizing about Penelope. Now, I'm the dirty blonde spy wearing a dress hiked over my face and the hands cupping my nut sac and tugging on my cock belong to a drawling Mediterranean Potions Master, doing with me as he sees fit. I moan as I lift my arse, arching it enough so that my finger can tip-toe further down until it's lost in a hole I never once thought could bring me so much pleasure.


	3. Chapter 3

**ACT III**

12.

I wake up in time for my midnight 'meeting' with an Order member. I received word that it was to be Harry I'd be meeting with. I wasn't looking forward to it, either. He's never been one for chatting or having much of a sense of humour, but lately his sour disposition has grown exponentially. I don't understand how Charlie puts up with him, actually.

Having received no word from Severus, I can only assume that he has no news to give me (or has been caught and killed, either by an Order member, the Ministry, or a Death Eater who's figured him for a spy). After my shower, I put on loose-fitting casual clothes and cast a glamour charm to deaden my red hair, which tends to be quite noticeable, even in the dark. The night air is nippy when I step from my flat onto the sidewalk. Zipping up my bomber jacket, I make my way towards Nocturne Alley.

I may simply be paranoid, but I've the sensation there are eyes watching my every move. Charlie once told me to give myself a minute after turning a corner, and then peer around said corner to make sure no one is following me. I do this and much to my surprise, I'm not being followed, despite the feeling in the pit of my stomach that tells me contrary. I press on to my destination, sidestepping other witches and wizards out for a night of revelry or debauchery, or just trying to lose themselves in something other than their fears. Still, I can't shake that feeling that someone – or something – is following me.

I make a final turn into a dark alley between two of the more unsavoury establishments in Nocturne Alley, forgetting not to continue until I glanced around the corner, again. Suddenly, from out of the shadows, a pair of freckled hands grabs hold of my collar, dragging me into the darkness. I'm pulled in to the shade, arms pulling tight against a body. Before I can cast a spell, a strong hand covers my mouth, gripping me so hard I wince in pain.

"Be still," I hear. "Be silent. You were followed."

I instinctively paw at the hand covering my mouth until I see Corin Praeposit running into the alley, wand at the ready.

"Lumos!" he hisses and light erupts from the tip of his wand. "I know you're in here, Weasley! I saw you!" The light from his spell roams about the alleyway, high and low and then high again. As the light makes its way to where I – we – are standing, my heart pounds in my chest and my breath hitches.

'This is it', I think, 'I've been caught.'

Instead, Praeposit glosses over me – us – like we're not even there. Finally resolved that I am, in fact, not in the alley, he whispers "Nox" and extinguishes the wand-light, casting one last furtive look around the alley before taking off hastily down the street.

Despite this, the hand covering my mouth doesn't move for a few minutes more.

"Stop your struggling," my captor jeers. "You stringy little git!"

Finally, I pull myself free.

"Damn it, Charlie!" I yell, spinning around to face my older brother. The shadows in front of me shimmer and recoil before collapsing on itself, leaving Charlie Weasley in its place (with quite the smug look on his mug, I might add).

"Well, aren't you the clever one, then?" I spit, trying my best to hide how impressed I truly am. The spell – whatever it was – not only kept us hidden in shadows, but also repelled the light of a Lumos Charm.

"Well, I can't take credit for that bit o' magic," Charlie admits, stepping up to close the gap between us.

"The Twins?" I ask.

"Nope. Colin Creevey, if you can believe that."

"Probably used it to snoop around Hogwarts, the little pervert," I mutter, far more petulantly than I intended.

Charlie laughed. "He taught us that nifty li'l number before him and his brother took off for Canada."

"Didn't feel much like fighting a war, did they?" I tease.

"Their father has cancer," he replies, solemnly. "There's an experimental treatment in North American that they're gonna try out."

"Oh."

And believe me; I feel as big a donkey as I should. Sometimes I forget that people have personal wars they need to attend to, as well. We can't all be Dark Lord Slayers, can we?

Charlie grabs me by the shoulders and draws me in to a tight hug.

"It's good to see you, baby brother."

"You, too."

And it is.

Without warning, I feel the familiar compression of a side-long Apparation. An instant later, we're on the rooftop of a building some five blocks from where we were. I freeze up, refusing to move from where I'm standing.

"Just don't look down," Charlie quips, letting me go and sitting on the ledge of the roof.

"How's Harry?"

"He's... Harry." Charlie gives me a look as if that alone should answer everything. It doesn't, of course. I don't know Harry very well. At least, not in the manner that Charlie or Ronald or Hermione do. "So..."

"Down to business, then?" I ask.

"Haven't got a lot of time, unfortunately."

"Just as well. You-Know-Who plans on using dragons again. He has a list of reserves that he plans on attacking soon."

Charlie ponders this information for a second before asking, "Do you know which Reserves?"

"Yes," I answer, pulling a small piece of folded parchment from my pocket and handing it to him. He unfolds the note, reads over it, and folds it back up, putting it in his shirt pocket.

"Thanks for this," he says with a strained, weak smile.

"Your turn," I point out as that familiar glossed-over expression began to form over Charlie's face, a sure sign that he's thinking far too much.

"Oh, yeah, right. Well, it seems our plight have reached ears abroad. We just welcomed a cadre of American and German freedom fighters the other day. Why are you looking at me like that?"

I truly don't understand, especially not after the meeting this morning with the Muggle admin.

"It's just... we had a meeting today with the Prime Minister. Well, he sent an assistant, but from what he was telling us, it seemed as though the American and German governments were on the side of the Muggles..."

"Wait... wait... 'Side of the Muggles'? What's that rot? We're on the same side, yeah?"

I proceed to relay this morning's meeting to Charlie, who can hardly keep his mouth from gaping open.

"... 'Magical and Arcane Governing Injunction and Control Act'...? Bollocks!"

"I know," I say. "I thought it silly, too."

"It's not silly, Percy," Charlie admonishes and, for a minute, he makes me feel eight years old again. "It's frightening. What you're talking about what can amount to a Civil War, here." He stands up and begins pacing the roof. "And, I highly doubt it'd be a war that we could win."

"Pure drek, that," I scoff.

Charlie stops his pacing and glares at me. "Really? Do you know a spell that can stop a bullet? Because I sure as hell don't."

I'm instantly taken back to the conversation I had with the disguised Severus; he said much the same thing.

"Well, what about the Americans... or the Germans? You said you had some—"

"Yeah, they're with us so long as it seems we're on the same side. But... if our Muggle government declares some sort of offensive against us, they might not be so forthcoming with the help."

"That's daft!"

"Hardly. Percy, it's not like it is here. With Britain, it's debateable who came first: wizards or Muggles. At best, we can assume that wizards have been around at least as long as the first government formed on these lands. But with North America, it's different. Aside from the indigenous peoples there, the government formed, and _then_ the wizards came. American wizards see themselves as _Americans_ first, wizards second. It's hard press to find wizards here that think themselves Britons first. Our whole government has treated the two worlds as a sort of 'us' and 'them'."

It's times like these that I wish I never got into politics.

"If there's a war between the wizarding world and the Muggle world," Charlie continues, "they'll simply default to what they know: Muggle law is the law-prime, everything else is secondary. Certainly, we'll have supporters... but it won't compare. We'd be slaughtered. And, honestly, I don't know which side I'd fight for at this point."

I want to argue the point, about how ridiculous all of this nonsense is, but I haven't the strength. I've seen so many horrible things perpetrated by the Ministry that it's hard to discern between us and the Death Eaters, sometimes. My mind instantly thinks of Sirius Black, jailed for thirteen years without so much as a trial or formal charges, and of Stan Shunpike, much for the same reason, found hung from a make-shift noose. He was dead for two days before anyone found him. I think of these atrocities and I, too, wonder which side I'd be on.

"Oh, by the way," Charlie says. "Do you know where Draco Malfoy is?"

"No."

Charlie seems to deflate with the defeat, his head bowed. "Harry's looking for him... again."

"Must be tough... when your lover is obsessed with someone else."

Charlie doesn't respond. His jaw clenches and unclenches in rapid succession. Finally, he tosses me a pinchbeck smile and says, "Be careful, Perce. If things start getting too hot, don't worry about contacting us for awhile. Lay low if you have to."

With that, he gives me another hug before disapparating with a loud 'crack', leaving me alone on a rooftop, lost in thought.

13.

Those thoughts are still there, festering, when I turn in for the night. I've a mere four hours before I have to return to the Ministry, yet I toss and turn and ponder. First, I brood over the current Muggle-Wizard situation, musing on what Charlie said.

_'What you're talking about what can amount to a Civil War...'_

Soon, however, my thoughts converge on Charlie, just Charlie, and his horrible taste in men. First, there was Oliver, who broke his heart for Marcus Flint (of all people). Then, there was that bloke from Romania, who was more in love with Charlie's status at the Dragon Reserve than with Charlie, the person; and finally, our 'Boy Saviour', so broken and tattered that all the magic in the world couldn't piece him back together. It's as if Charlie chooses lovers like they're dragons; some need fixing, some are sure to bring you down, while others will undoubtedly burn you alive.

My heart breaks even as sunlight cuts through the night sky.

14.

I'm greeted by hectic frenzy in the Department of International Magic Cooperation the next morning. The worried look on most employees' faces makes me feel that I've missed something, or that something's missed me. Secretaries are rushing to and fro, interns are busy retrieving files, memos are flying by their own volition to their destination (I barely manage to dodge one as it whisks by), and here I am, late as usual, without a clue as to what is going on. I see construction workers wearing deep blue jumpsuits with _'F&G Magical Defence'_ embroidered on the back. The colour reminds me of home, for some reason. The workers move stealthily around the chaos, some placing contraptions in various corners, some 'spelling' runes out with their wands on walls and doors.

As I turn the last corner before reaching my cubicle, I bump into Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"Oh, ah… hullo," I stammer.

"Weasley. My office. Now."

Bollocks.

I follow Kingsley to his office, about three doors down from Minister Scrimgeour's. He waves his hand, sending a wave of magic that opens the door, and steps aside, indicating that I should go in, first.

"Have a seat," he says, pointing to the chair in front of his desk. Kingsley sits behind his desk, his eyes boring into me, unrelentingly. "Have you heard the news, then?"

"Uhm… No?"

"As you know, the Ministry's been doing low-key transfers of powerful magical artifact's to the Department of Mysteries for safe keeping. A team of mid-level Aurors were to over-see the transportation of the _Scarti Scimitar_ last night."

My eyes widen. "That was Dreski's team, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Only his team, the Minister, myself, and you knew the exact pick-up point and drop-off time," Kingsley says, leaning back in his seat. "A small cadre of Death Eaters attacked them at the drop-off point and stole the artefact."

"Dreski and his team…? Are they…?"

"Dead. The lot of them," Kingsley answers, matter-of-factly. "Weasley, I have to ask you: have you been in contact with Charlie Weasley and/or Harry Potter in the last couple of weeks?"

"No," I reply, making sure to keep my voice level and steady.

"Have you been in contact with Draco Malfoy?"

"No."

"Have you been in contact with Severus Snape, either in person, via Floo calls, or any other method of communication, magical or otherwise, in your form or in the guise of another?"

Understandably, I'm taken aback by the depth of the question. It was a simple 'have you talked to' with Harry and Charlie (both of whom I _have_ been in contact with, of course), but for Severus, it's an in-depth interrogation covering almost all the bases. Hell, he's stopped short of asking us if we've shagged.

"No," I say, after a hard swallow. "What is this about, Kingsley?"

"We have a spy in our midst," he answers, with little fanfare.

15.

I walk back to my cubicle, dazed and out-of-sorts. Why didn't Severus tell me that the Death Eaters were planning to go after the Schimitar? Is he okay? Has he been caught? A thousand things race through my mind, but none of them are as potent as the anger bubbling underneath. How could he not tell me this? Why would he think this, of all things, was not worth letting me know? It's an extremely powerful and dangerous artefact! I could have told Charlie, who could have told his Ministry contact as well as the Order. Dreski could still be alive, then; his wife wouldn't be a widow… his children, fatherless. I think about my father and wonder how I'd feel if he lost his life on one of his raids.

I pass an open door to one of the offices that are not being used. Hands grab me by my collar and drag me inside. Corin Praeposit flings me around, slamming me face-first into the wall. He presses himself flush against my back, digs his knees between my legs. I scream when he jabs me in my ribs, but that only forces him to pull me back and slam me against the wall, harder than before.

"Shut up, Weasley," he hisses. "You fucking traitor!"

"I haven't the clue what you're on abou—OW!"

Another jab.

"Dreski was a mate of mine, you little fuck. I grew up with him and now I'll never see him again. His wife will never see him again. His children – Merlin bless them – will never see him again."

"Then I suggest you save your righteous anger for the people responsibl—OW!"

Another slam.

"I'm looking at him. I followed you last night, you know. I saw you dip into that alley. Then you were gone, weren't you? Tell me, did you Apparate? Did you transform yourself into a rat? Fitting, that, considering your history with rats."

Merlin, he knows an awful lot about me despite having gone to Durmstrang and not Hogwarts.

"I thought the Minister strictly forbid you to follow me? He won't like it one bit…"

"I'll get an Order of Merlin, First Class once I get enough evidence against you, weasel."

Crimeny! Now I know how Ronald felt every time Malfoy called him a 'weasel'; it's infuriating.

"I'll be watching you, just so you know," he says, pushing off of me. He walks out of the room while I'm left there, shaking in anger.

I walk like an Inferius out of the empty office, making my way to my cubicle. My mind is racing a thousands miles-a-minute. I thought I was being so careful, that I was watching my back. Praeposit's suspicions go beyond him hating how I've handled my family; I've had to have slipped up somewhere. I'll have to be careful.

"Whoa! Sorry there, mate!"

I feel broad shoulders bump into me from behind, bringing me out of my thoughts. Not paying attention to where I was going, I managed to bump into one of the construction works, who stops me from completely falling on my arse by grabbing me by the shoulders.

"Steady there, mate," he says. His dark eyes are penetrating and I feel like I've seen them before.

"Sorry," I stammer as I walk away.

"Hey!" he calls from behind. "You dropped this."

I turn to face him. The worker's holding a folded piece of torn parchment.

"I didn't..."

Before I can finish the thought, he sidles up to me and shoves the note in my hand. "Here ya' go, mate. You never know, it might be important." He winks. His lip curls into some twisted form of a smile before he turns on his heels and walks away.

Blankly, I unfold the parchment, instantly recognising the handwriting as Severus'. A gold coin falls to the floor, far too shiny to be a mere Galleon. When I pick it up, magic floods me, filling me with a warmth I hardly thought Snape capable of.

16.

_Blondes have all the fun at Ministry of Sound. Especially around 11:45pm. Make sure you bring the coin._

That's about as subtle as a World Quidditch Cup's drunken victory celebration. Even so, my cock can't help twitch at the thought of being the blonde again; and I find myself hoping that he shows up as the Mediterranean.

Penelope tried to take me to the _Hacienda_, once. She and some of her Ravenclaw classmates had been sneaking out of Hogwarts for months and having 'proper weekenders', as she was fond of calling them. I, of course, would have nothing of it. I was a Head Boy, after all, and couldn't be part of such childish things. It always angered me that they had their little inside giggles when I'd sit with them for brunch or tea on Sunday. They'd gossip about what they did, what they should have done, and what they would have done if only the drinks were stronger or the boys cuter. I pretended my anger was because of their blatant disregard for school rules, but really, I was jealous. Mind you, I wasn't jealous of any bloke – or bird – who might have met with Penelope's fancy, nor was I jealous of the fun they had and the memories they made. No, I envied the courage she had to do it.

I always had an excuse, too. At first, it was my status at Hogwarts. Eventually, however, I didn't have school to fall back on. That's when I'd use my job at the Ministry as a reason not to go to such places. The Ministry of Sound was one of those places. It was irreverent, decadent, exciting; everything that life with Percival Weasley was not. Penelope continued to go to Muggle nightclubs, even after we moved in together. She called it her reward for attending all of those Ministry functions and black-tie events; watching her live-in lover, the sycophant, bending over and wiping my face with the filthy arses of those I called 'boss'.

Figuratively, of course.

It's easy to understand how reading a note from a Death Eater informant telling me to meet him at such a Muggle club would be rather annoying. Some memories, after all, are best left well enough alone.

"_Incendio_," I whisper as I wave my wand over the letter, watching as it burns to a light-grey ash.


	4. Chapter 4

**ACT IV**

17.

Elephant and Castle, Southwark, South London, Ministry of Sound

It took me five minutes for the Polyjuice to kick in, an embarrassing thirty minutes to squeeze my new tits in a dress that was probably two sizes too small, forty-five minutes to get in the club, and minutes after stepping foot in the warehouse with the mechanical cadence and the mesmerising lights... I want to leave.

"Check your coat, love?"

The coat-check girl smiles from behind the counter when I turn to face her. She's sprightly in her appearance, with her medium-length hair pulled into pig-tails. Rainbow-coloured butterfly clips keep her locks tight along her head, preventing them from falling flat on her round cherub-like and glittered face. Her green and pink lipstick glows in the dark. If she weren't so bubbly it would almost seem sinister or eerie.

Her tits are rather top-hole as well.

I hand her my jacket and a pound note, making sure to slip the extra vials of Polyjuice in my inside-skirt pocket. I feel for my wand, strapped to my upper thigh, right as she hands me a ticket with a number, nods, and goes into the back to hang up my jacket. The mirror to my side catches my eye when I start to turn to leave. It takes me a moment to realise that I'm staring at a reflexion of 'myself'. With the epileptic flash of the lights and the loud thumb preventing me from thinking straight, I almost thought I was looking at a blonde Penelope.

What is it about this body that responds to my environment so positively? The pulsating rhythms; the heat of the crowd; the smell of sweat, sex and liquor – it all combines into an intoxicating brew that I find I'm quite willing to lose myself in. Eyes follow me as I make my way up the steps leading to the upper level that surrounds the main floor like a crescent moon; I figure it'd be best to start there, maybe I can spot Severus quicker this way. Ranging from leering to admiring, the men – and women – watching me brings a certain feminine swagger to my step, whereas normally I'd simply ignore them or assume they were having a laugh at my expense. By the sweet Gods, this body…

I lean over the rail and peer down on the dance floor, appreciating the beautiful and oddly-adorned bodies sweating and gyrating, swaying to the music that should be considered too loud to be safe, yet is alluring and enthralling, instead. My mission – the purpose for me being here – is almost lost on me. Absent-mindedly, I reach for the coin in my skirt pocket and stroke it. Severus' disguise is unknown to me, but I know which body I hope he occupies. Instantly, I'm reminded of Charlie and his poor taste in blokes, and I curse the fates for tempting me with the new thrill of uncharted territory all the while denying me any chance to indulge.

"May I buy you a drink?"

The deep voice comes from behind, shocking me to the here-and-now. I barely turn my head when I reply, "No thanks. I'm waiting for someone."

"Aren't we all," he replies. A strong hand – his hand – snakes around my waist. Without thinking, I instinctively arch back into him, rubbing his crotch with my arse. His voice hitches as I begin to grinding against him. My body, it would seem, has a mind of its own. 

The stranger spins me around and immediately embraces me. I can't see his face.

"Why, Percy… you are quite the vixen, tonight."

"S-Severus?" I whisper.

"Yes." His husky response tickles my ear.

"H-how did you know it was me?" I ask breathlessly, wrapping my arms around his neck. He's a good head or two taller than me, which makes me feel even more… 

"The coin," he breathes. "It was charmed."

"I see."

Finally, Severus pulls back and I am shocked at his appearance. He's a tall, strapping black man with skin more smooth than any I've seen before, even on a bird. His hair is short-cropped on the sides and back with dangling dreads that hang over his forehead, into his eyes. His lips are full, slightly lighter in shade than the rest of him, and his tight shirt reveals a body that would make even the fittest professional Quidditch player envious to the point of suicide.

"Fuck, Severus…"

His lip twitches upward. "You like?"

I want to say 'yes', of course. I want to throw him down and fuck him right here and now, with everyone watching. I want to see if he'll fuck me to the beat of the song blaring at me from every angle.

"If that's your sort of thing," I reply.

He pulls away, grabs my hand, and leads me to one of the bars along the back of the balcony. We slide between several patrons, gaining the attention of the barman.

"Makers and Coke," Severus orders, so casually you'd think he used to such Muggle things.

"And for the beautiful lady?" the bartender asks, delivering a wink that sends me blushing like a schoolgirl.

"Ah… Well… Er…" 

"She'll have a guava martini, please."

Thankful for the save, I relax my head on his shoulder. He tenses momentarily at the touch, but soon relaxes, wrapping an arm around me and drawing me closer. I wonder if this was one of the things Penelope was missing. She couldn't have possibly felt this safe and secure in my arms, after all. I doubt 'safe' is a word that could be used interchangeably with 'Weasley'. No, I take that back. Charlie and Bill are this strong. Even the twins are broad of shoulder and wide in chest. It's only me, then – only Percy who couldn't command power just by walking or standing or… being.

As we toddle from the bar down a corridor that leads to the second dance floor (which is just as big and intricate as the first), I remember that I'm supposed to be upset with Severus. I stop following him, which prompts him to turn to face me once he realises I'm no longer moving.

"Why didn't you tell me about the raid – about the Scimitar?"

Severus looks around quickly before walking closer to me, almost spilling the two drinks in his hands. "Try and speak louder… woman. I don't think He heard you."

I pout, crossing my arms over my chest (forgetting to take in consideration my amble bosoms). Severus guides me to the side as some club goers pass by us.

"It's imperative that He doesn't suspect. He thinks I don't know this, but he tells certain people of certain plans in an effort to weed out the spy. Only I knew of the Scimitar…"

"But, how do you get other information then? If he only tells certain plans to certain people…"

"You forget," he says with a sly smile, "that I am the resident Potions Master. I have been tainting everything – food, potions, drink – with something that allows me to … extract the information when need be. Since it's not a charm or other invocation, He cannot detect it."

"You're… brilliant," I mumble.

His head quickly jerks up, looking at something behind me with a worried expression.

"Yes, brilliant. Except that I was followed."

Before I can say anything, he forces me into a dark corner and sets our drinks on a nearby table.

"How do you know—mmmmf!"

His mouth captures mine in mid-sentence, one hand on the small of my back and the other on the back of my head, pulling me deeper into the kiss. Almost immediately, I forget the last thing he said. I even forget that this is a mission – this is pretend. My eyes close and my lips part. My tongue slides lightly across his lips even as my hands find the back of his head. I don't know when it happened, exactly, but soon we are kissing with the passion and intensity of newfound lovers. He presses my back flush against the wall, his knee sliding between my legs, brushing my pussy in a most deliberate manner. I feel my panties getting wet even as my mouth becomes dry. Everything loses focus. The music, which was once a clear, blistering cadence of rhythms, is muffled, as though being heard from underwater.

Suddenly, the warmth that I felt is stolen from me and shortly thereafter the room comes back into focus. It's as though I had been cuddled under a blanket only to have it torn from me. Severus still has me in his grip as he looks over his shoulder.

"You see that man over there? The one with the Mohawk?"

I look down the corridor into the room adjacent and see a rather sizeable bloke with a purple Mohawk, his back to us, and obviously searching for someone.

"How can you be certain?" I ask, still rather breathless.

"As I said, I'm His Potions Master. I put an ingredient in their stockpile of Polyjuice that tells me when one of them is nearby. It's like a magnetic push. I felt it as soon as he walked in the establishment, but couldn't be for certain until he was within close proximity." He turns to face me. "We should take this elsewhere."

It doesn't escape my notice that, in the entire time that Severus has been explaining himself, he hadn't moved from his spot. In fact, he's moved closer to me as his story progressed. By the time he turns back to look at me, where almost nose-to-nose. My head tilts, his eyes begin to close.

Out of my peripheral vision, I see Corin Praeposit make his way past several patrons towards us, caring very little about propriety or courtesy. Although his eyes are not on me – nor would he know my guise – I quickly pull Severus in for that kiss. He moans in my mouth, but I am frozen, transfixed on Praeposit as he whisks by us, unaware. At that moment, I realise that he may not even be looking for me, though that's highly doubtful. Why else would he be here? A few seconds later, two other junior-level Aurors pass us, trying to catch up with Praeposit.

I pull apart from Severus, who I can hear whispering my name – my real name, mind you – and lean to the side, peering over his shoulder. The Polyjuiced Death Eater sees Corin and quickly changes direction, going into the men's lav. By Corin and his team's reaction – or lack thereof – I highly doubt the Death Eater's chosen appearance is known to them.

I grab Severus' hand and lead him down the corridor, back into the main dance floor and away from Corin.

"What—?"

"No time," I hiss. "There are Aurors here, too."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes. They aren't concealed. They may be after me."

"After you?" Severus asks, incredulous.

"Unfortunately, I haven't been as adept in cloak and daggers as I should have been. One of them thinks me a spy."

"Well, that buggers all. How could be so careless?"

"You can take away points later, Professor," I spit. "For now, we need to get out of here."

Severus pulls away and walks towards a door. The sign above it reads: 'Fire Escape'. I can feel a tickle of magic engulf us.

"What did you just do?" I ask, watching as Severus opens the door.

"Befuddlement Charm," he answers, standing aside to let me pass. I only hope the enchantment dissipates – and any trace of magic with it – before the Aurors do a standard spell sweep and find it.

18.

I begin to climb down the fire escape when Severus calls out, "No, we go up. There may be Aurors or Death Eaters below, waiting for anyone to leave the building."

So, up we climb, zigzagging along the side of the building, the metal steps creaking underneath us. Finally – thankfully – we make it to the rooftop. There's a brick overlay with a door in the dead-centre, obviously leading back into the club. I start to get extremely nervous.

"Do you feel that?" Severus asks as he peers over the ledge.

The prickle of magic makes the hair on the back of my neck – what little there is – stand on end.

"An Espial Web," I reply.

"Shite!" Severus cries out, slamming his fist against the cold concrete. I'm taken aback at how uncharacteristic his outburst was. I mean, really – Severus Snape? With the mouth of a drunken sailor? "If we use any magic, it'll mark us."

"It won't detect Polyjuice," I remind him.

"Yes, but any use of actual spells, including Apparation, and they'll be able to follow us wherever we go!" 

"We can just stand here and wait it out…"

As if by cue, the door on the brick overlay swings open and the mohawked Death Eater barrels through, eyes wide with frenzied desperation. He quickly takes notice of us and raises his wand.

"Accio stupid bint!"

To my dismay, the spell reaches out to me and drags me into his arms. He turns around just in time to see Praeposit and his partners enter the doorway, wands at the ready.

"Stop where you are or I kill this fuckin' cow!" he barks.

"Hey!" I yell, more offended at the insult than at being used as a human shield. After all, the others think I'm a helpless Muggle. 

Unexpectedly, Praeposit tosses a small metal sphere on the ground. It bursts open releasing a cloud of smoke that merely hovers at ground level before branching off into two tentacle-like wisps; one aiming for the Death Eater and me, the other aiming towards Severus. Within seconds, we are engulfed in the stifling cloud and I feel a familiar lurch and twist in my body. The three of us – the Death Eater, Severus, and I – are soon writhing on the ground as the Polyjuice is violently countervailed.

I feel my clothes grow tight around me, splitting down the sides. My feet succumb to near-excruciating pain as they find themselves stuffed in shoes now far too small to fit. All the same, that hardly compares to the agony of bones being forced to twist and expand back into its original shape and density. Even worse, however, is the fact that I didn't know the Ministry even had such a counter Potion to Polyjuice. Colour me surprised.

"Weasley!" Praeposit exclaims. When I look up, there's a self-satisfying smirk on his wide face, peppered, of course, with righteous rage.

To my side, the Death Eater – who I know to be McNair – stands on his feet, wand raised to attack. However, the sudden reversion back to his true form leaves him too disoriented and slow.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Green light shoots from one of the junior Auror's wands, slamming into McNair's chest. He falls over, dead weight, just as Praeposit makes his way to me.

Severus tries to stand and cast a spell. As magic ebbs about his wand, though, the Espial Web kicks in, swarming and cocooning around him and locking him in a paralysing lattice of energy. It's over, then – done. I have been found in the company of Death Eaters. My career – my life – is forfeit. Again, I curse the fates for this cruel turn of events.

Praeposit grabs me by the collar and lifts me bodily from the floor.

"I knew it," he chides. "I knew you were in league with them, you fucking traitor. I can't wait to turn you in – oh, it'll be a shining moment in my career, most definitely. I'll get an Order of Merlin for this, you can be certain."

"You'll get a swift kick in the arse if you don't let him go."

The space around us flashes brilliant red. I hear the soft thump of two bodies hit the hard floor. Corin, still holding on to me, turns to find his partners lying prone and unconscious. In the doorway stand Charlie and … Harry, both with wands smouldering in energy. My brother looks ready to kill, I pray that's just for show.

"Put my brother down, now," Charlie commands in a slow, level tone.

"I'd do what he says were I you," Harry adds. Suddenly, his wand falters as he looks off to the side to see Severus, tied like a gift-wrapped present. "Snape!"

Corin tosses me aside, points his wand to Harry, and sends a spell that tosses him backwards down the stairs. Charlie turns to make sure he's alright, leaving him open to Praeposit's next attempt.

"You fucking traitors! You'll all pay for this!" he says, the Killing Curse on the tip of his tongue.

I tackle him, forcing the green-coloured blast to miss my brother, narrowly so.

"Get off me, you li'l shite!" Praeposit shouts, punching me in the face. Blood splatters on him from my broken nose.

The world starts to get hazy; I can barely focus on my surroundings. I can see two figures tossing hexes and jinxes back and forth, neither side gaining the upper hand, but I can't discern who's who. I try to stand but my legs are like jelly, incapable of holding my weight. Instead, I crawl to the ledge, using it to pull me up.

"Percy! Look out!"

"Stupefy!"

I see a large body jump in front of me, the haze of the curse outlining its frame. The force of the spell, however, pushes my saviour into me, sending me careening over the ledge – three-stories to my death.

19.

I land hard on my side, hearing almost every bone in my body break. Blood clouds my vision and soon, I'm too weak to keep my eyes open. Before I succumb to darkness, however, I see Aurors rushing to me. Then, I hear my brother – that beautiful, angelic voice – shouting.

"Don't touch him – don't you fuckin' touch him or I swear to all I hold dear I'll fucking kill you all!"

His voice is closer, now – smaller, softer. "P-Percy… please talk to me… please…"

I cough my response – a small bit of laughter – and feel blood spit out.

"I… I think I fell down, Charlie…"

My eyes close. Clear as day, I can see the Burrow off in the background; feel the damp grass tickling me from underneath; smell Mum's glorious cooking. And then there's Charlie, young as time yet already more than I could ever hope to be.

I hear his voice catch in his throat. "Yes, yes you did. Can you… can you move… anything?"

"I'm cold."

I feel something drape over me; it smells of Charlie – like leather and dragons and all things I wanted to be yet couldn't find the strength to become. If this is to be my pall, I think, I'm okay with that. I have little choice otherwise.

"Here you go, Percival."

"Don't —GAK—call me that…!" Even in death I'm little more than a spoilt brat, fighting to be seen – noticed – in a family of my superiors.

"Don't worry, Perce… Mum will have you fixed in no time," Charlie offers weakly through much stronger tears.

"She's... going to —cough— be mad."

"Yes, but not at you."

And that's the end of it, my story. What a rather lack-lustre way to go, I would think.


	5. Chapter 5

**EPILOGUE**

20.

If this is what death feels like, it's not so bad. It's dark, but warm. I feel like I'm covered in soft blankets with an even softer bed underneath and I can hear what are sure to be angels fussing over me.

Hold on.

The 'angels' sound like my mum.

Oh, no. I'm in hell! I don't even believe in hell, yet here I am!

My hoarse, cracked voice cuts through the air and all extraneous noises cease. I can still hear something outside that sounds remarkably like… cheering? Slowly – painfully – I open my eyes.

"Where in Merlin's name am I?" I ask, weakly.

"Percy!"

The weight of seven pairs of arms comes crashing down on me, reminding me quite forcibly that I am alive – and in pain.

"Hold on, you pack of wild gits," a voice calls. "He's barely recovered! You'll break all his bones… again."

The pile of freckles and ginger hair part like the Red Sea. Standing in the doorway, leaning against it, scowls Ron, as tall and lanky as ever.

"Gave us a right scare, you did," he says, looking every bit at a loss. I can tell that he doesn't know whether to hug me or hit me. Instead, he gives me a smile and a nod before turning and walking away. For now, I guess, that'll do.

"Where am I?" I ask no one in particular.

It's my mum who answers, teary-eyed and smiling. "St. Mungo's. You've been out for weeks."

"Weeks?" I say, wincing as I try to sit up.

Charlie's hand gently forces me down. "No, you don't – none of that. You still need time to heal."

"It seemed" George begins.

"That you managed" Fred continues.

"To break almost every bone" 

"In that wispy li'l body of yours."

"Oh, will you two stop doing that, you unnatural little beasts? I'm dizzy enough as it is!" I bark.

The room erupts in laughter.

"Ahh, he's alright," Ginny concedes, leaning down to kiss me on my forehead. "Good to have you back, brother."

"See ya, Percival!" Fred and George call in unison, following Ginny out of the room.

"Don't call me that," I mumble, very much like a stubborn eleven-year old.

I look over to see my father, who has never looked worse. His hair is thinner than I remember, as is he. Dark circles around his eyes suggest that he hasn't been asleep in quite some time.

"Well, I ah…" he stammers, fighting some urge unknown to me. He has his jacket in his hands, ringing them so tight that his knuckles are white and flared. His mouth forms a straight line, but I can see him trembling, slightly.

"Come on, Dad," Bill offers, giving me a smile. "You owe me a coffee, remember?" He wraps an arm around Dad, who relaxes under the weight. Nodding, the two leave the room.

"Surprised you're alive then?" Charlie asks me.

"Quite," I answer. "How…?"

"Oh, honestly," Mum interrupts, facing the window. Even though her back is to us, I can tell she's folding something. "It's only bones! Not like any first-year resident couldn't mend an entire body of broken limbs."

Charlie leans in to whisper to me. "She's been doing that all week, you know? Unfolding and folding St. Mungo's towels..."

"Well, if they'd do it correctly," she snaps. "I'd hardly have to do it for them."

Charlie rolls his eyes. "Shacklebolt had the know-all to send a team of medics along with the Aurors, just in case there were any fatalities."

"Praeposit…?"

"On suspension pending investigation," Charlie answers. Unfortunately, that's standard when there's a death-via-Unforgivable involved in an Auror raid. It's unlikely anything will come of it.

"He was actually following McNair, apparently on another lead," Charlie continues with a shrugs.

"And McNair was looking for Severus," I add, trying to piece together everything.

Charlie nods. "I doubt he knew the spy was Severus, though, until the Aurors attacked you."

"Where… where is Severus…?"

"He's in Azkaban. Just temporarily, though. He took that jinx for you," he answers.

Mum huffs at this.

"He goes to trial soon. He… ah… wants to see you. When you're able, that is."

It's surprising how good that makes me feel.

"And… You-Know-Who…?" I ask, afraid of the answer.

"Dead. Harry took care of him," Charlie answers and there's almost a sense of pride in his voice, a twinkle in his eyes. "I guess Severus had been poisoning him for months, now."

"I am the resident Potions Master. I have been tainting everything – food, potions, drink…"

"Bloody brilliant," I whisper, not bothering to hide the awe in my voice.

"By the time Harry faced him, You-Know-Who could barely lift his wand," Charlie adds. He stands up and stretches. "Listen, I better get going. Shacklebolt and I have some things to discuss. The word hasn't quite reached everyone that He's dead. His last standing order was to enslave the dragons, so we still need to protect the reservations. You coming, Mum?"

Mother stands folding the towels and her head sinks further down. "Yes… yes, I'd better. Let Percy get some rest."

She turns to face the door, keeping her back away from me.

"Mum," I call; she stops. "I'd like for you to stay… if… if you don't mind. At least… at least until I fall asleep?"

Mother turns to face me, a smile across her wet face. "I'd love to, dear."

As Charlie leaves the room, Mum conjures a chair next to me and takes my hand into hers. She sits there, prattling on about garden gnomes, how infuriating the Twins' behaviour has been, all the various arguments between Ginny and Fleur, and how Gabrielle (my niece) has taken to pranks that have left Fred and George in utter amazement. But we don't talk about the argument that splintered me from the family or the underlining cause of it. That we'll save for another time. For right now, I'm simply Percy Weasley, the third eldest son, who's finally come back home… this time to stay.


End file.
